


the tinderbox of my heart

by majesdane



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Universe, F/F, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: What is hate, if not a kind of love? Scylla thinks she might hate Raelle, too.| Set after 1x10.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 42
Kudos: 447





	the tinderbox of my heart

she has found me. she has kissed me. all is shattered.  
— virginia woolf, _the waves_

* * *

She's so stupid.

A sensible part of her that insists that there's no way she could have known that Willa — Willa _Collar_ , Raelle's _mother_ — was the one behind her orders. Willa had made sure of that; she'd always been so vague and cagey about her past. And whenever Raelle had spoken of her, Willa had sounded nothing like the woman Scylla knew. Raelle's _mother_ was quiet. Tired, but kind. As big-hearted and stupidly romantic as her daughter.

 _Willa_ was cool and calculating. Not quite ruthless, but something adjacent to that, hardened by the military and the world.

Still. There were so many little clues. How _hard_ Scylla was pushed to connect with Raelle, to bring her to the Spree without hesitation, without question. The bower's bird protection charm Raelle loving referenced once (they love anything _blue_ ); how cagey Petra Bellweather was about what happened in Liberia; the convenient lack of any remains. 

Raelle, mentioning that she was from the Cession, by way of Carolina. 

Scylla remembers Willa finding her at age sixteen, shivering in an alley, face tear-streaked, her parents' blood drying under her fingernails.

 _Come here, I've got you,_ Willa had soothed, cradling Scylla in her arms. _So brave,_ she'd said. _You remind me of my daughter._

Scylla's thought of that moment many times, but in the past, it's always been in the context of how she'd felt. The comfort of being looked after, the validation of her grief. Willa, threading a tiny braid into Scylla's hair. The way she'd sharpened Scylla's pain to a fine point, a knife to be held to Alder's throat. 

But here and now, standing in the kitchen, staring Willa down, everything slots neatly into place. 

"You should have told me," Scylla says, her tone more level than Willa deserves.

She wants to scream at Willa. She wants to smash everything within sight. She's lost _everything_. 

Willa raises an eyebrow. "And you should have followed orders."

*

Days pass.

A week, then nearly two.

Willa's instructed her to lie low for a while, just until the dust settles. But Scylla's grown used to the routine of Fort Salem. She paces about the house, restless and bored, until Willa finally relents and allows Scylla to run small errands. Always, though, in disguise. A slew of new faces to cycle through. 

Before, Scylla always used to get a special thrill in doing that kind of forbidden Work. But now when she does it, she thinks only of Raelle's clouded, accusatory glare.

( _have you done that to me before?_ )

Loneliness gnaws at her. 

Sleep comes in fitful bursts. She's always half-expecting to wake up chained once more to that stiff, metal chair, grimy and sore, the silencing collar chafing against her neck. The endless hours of silence, the yawning blackness just past the constant, blinding light. She can still feel the weight of the chains. Her wrists are the mottled purples and yellows of fading bruises. She picks at the scabs where her skin was scraped raw, watches the droplets of blood well up in their place.

When she can't sleep, she thinks of Raelle. 

Raelle, eyes dark and brimming with tears. Shaking with barely contained rage, hands balled into fists. Raelle, who kissed her so sweetly, who gazed at her with reverence. Raelle, who saved her. Raelle, who hates her. 

What is hate, if not a kind of love?

Scylla thinks she might hate Raelle, too.

( _was anything real?_ )

(she might ask the same question.)

She slides her hand below the waistband of her underpants. She remembers the press and slide of Raelle's fingers on that first night together. Raelle's mouth on her neck, breath hot; her teasing smile; the firmness of her body, pinning Scylla to the wall. The hours that followed. The tangled sheets and aching muscles. Raelle's tongue, moving in slow, practiced strokes. The sky blue of her eyes. The soft skin of her shoulders beneath Scylla's gripping fingers. 

She comes with a shudder, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth nearly hard enough to bleed. But with release comes unimaginable sadness, washing over her like a wave. There is a strange pricking in her chest, creeping like vines along her collarbone. The air has grown thick and suffocating; her throat closes up.

Scylla can feel the traitorous sting of tears in her eyes, and no matter how hard she tries to force them back down, they fall anyway, burning like fire.

She wipes them away quickly, as if to erase the fact that they even existed.

*

Anacostia isn't as clever as she thinks she is.

Scylla's a Dodger; she's used to always looking over her shoulder. Her parents taught her well — and the Spree taught her better.

"I know you're following me," Scylla remarks casually, skirting a display case in the grocery store and catching Anacostia by surprise. "Why don't we talk properly?"

They sit in the parking lot behind a run-down strip mall, as Anacostia tells her about the mess at Fort Salem. How Alder blocked the Bellweather Unit from War College as punishment for trying to expose her misdeeds. How she took the Bellweather Unit with her to rescue the Tarim, but only Tally came back with her — as a Biddy, no less.

Scylla's heart skips a beat. She straightens upright. "What about Raelle?"

Anacostia levels Scylla with a hard look. "She's fine. _Now_ ," she adds, after a long moment. "Something happened in the Altai Mountains. Raelle — she and Abigail nearly died." Off Scylla's panicked expression, she continues quickly. " _Almost_ being the operative word."

Scylla slumps back, flooded with relief. "As long as Raelle's safe now."

" _Something_ saved them," Anacostia says. "I don't know what." She holds up her hands as if to illustrate her point. "Alder doesn't know either. But she wants to find out."

"Alder can't be trusted." 

"I know," Anacostia agrees. If she registers Scylla's surprise, she doesn't show it. "But we have bigger problems now."

The Camarilla. It's the one area of current events where Willa's been generous with information. And now with everything Anacostia's told her, Scylla knows there's no stopping the incoming war. Tensions have begun to boil over. What happened in the Altai Mountains is only the beginning. 

"I need a favor," Scylla says.

Anacostia snorts. "I've done you quite a lot of favors lately."

Scylla ignores the small jab. "It's about Raelle," she explains softly, filled with trepidation. "And she's not going to be happy about it."

*

"Raelle." Her voice is a low, pleading whisper. "I didn't know. I promise."

They're standing in the backyard behind the safe-house, drenched in darkness, beneath the vastness of the night sky. All the others are still inside; when Raelle had stormed out angrily minutes ago, Scylla chased after her.

She feels angry on Raelle's behalf. On her _own_ behalf. All those emotions from that first afternoon at the safe-house come rushing back in. The sick, gut-wrenching feeling of betrayal, of having your entire world be flipped upside down in a single moment. 

Now, Raelle regards her with cool detachment. It's a look Scylla's become unfortunately familiar with. "I believe you," she says. Her tone comes rough, but it's edged with softness.

But it's not _enough_ , Scylla knows. Not enough to get Raelle to finally forgive her. If only _enough_ were a real, tangible thing. Scylla could reach for it, could grasp it in her hands. Could cling to the fraying lifeline. But she doesn't know what _enough_ is; the shape of it, the weight of it. Its value. She would ask — if she knew how.

If she could find the words.

"If I had known . . ." she trails off helplessly. "Raelle, I'm sorry."

Apologies are the only thing that come easily now.

*

Once, before:

Lying on the grass in the shade of their tree on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A warm, sun-drenched day in April. Scylla's curled against Raelle, who rests her head on her folded arms and tells Scylla stories about growing up in the Cession.

Sometimes, Scylla feels an urge to chime in with stories of her own. But the words always die on her tongue as quickly as they spring to life. Even if Raelle knows the truth — or a version of it, at least — Scylla just can't bring herself to open up. There's a comfort in keeping the past at arm's length. She can pretend, in small ways, that it all happened to someone else. A different girl, from another story. 

A girl Scylla left behind.

"You're quiet," Raelle says, stroking Scylla's hair.

"Just listening."

Scylla loves the way Raelle's mouth curves around certain words, even if Raelle's Cession drawl is otherwise mostly imperceptible.

She finds herself noticing all kinds of things about Raelle lately. The sharpness of Raelle's eyes, clear-blue and alert. The way her hair works free of her braids after a particularly difficult day of training. The curves of Raelle's legs and breasts and hips; the slope of her neck. How her laugh and smile are both infectious.

With her head on Raelle's chest, Scylla can hear — or at least thinks she can hear — the slow, steady beat of Raelle's heart. A runner's heart. Scylla measures her breathing, tries to match her heartbeat to Raelle's. It's her own secret way of Linking.

It all seems so unreal, these past few weeks. It feels like one very long, incredible dream —

(dreams always have happy endings, don't they?)

— and there's a part of Scylla, deep down, who knows that at any time it's all going to vanish.

"Come here," Raelle says, suddenly, her voice honeyed, and her hands are tugging at Scylla's shoulders, and Scylla is turning, rolling onto her stomach, letting herself be pulled into a languid kiss.

Raelle sighs, draping her arms around Scylla's waist.

Something blossoms in Scylla then. Something takes root and doesn't let go.

Not even now.

*

They skirt around each other, as if they're dry tinder and a flame, white hot. If they meet, it'll start a fire.

Everything's already been burned once before.

Scylla watches Raelle out of the corners of her eyes. Once, as Abigail's running through the mission for that day, Scylla notices Raelle, lost in thought, rubbing at her left hand. It fills Scylla with a tiny, giddy feeling. She imagines Raelle alone back at Fort Salem, at night, staring at her palm and remembering that sun-washed May morning. The way she threw her head back and laughed when Scylla picked her up and twirled her around.

That evening, Scylla traces the _S_ onto her own hand.

Just once.

Just in case.

*

Anacostia and Willa have tasked them with sorting through all the Camarilla correspondence memos that one of Alder's raids produced recently. Scylla's fairly certain that she and Raelle were intentionally paired up — even Abigail, High Atlantic herself, has been giving Scylla meaningful looks lately whenever Raelle goes off to sulk on her own, still nursing the hurt from her mother's year-long deception.

As if Scylla's supposed to know what to do.

Those days are long past.

Raelle sighs, casually tossing aside a stack of papers and rubbing her temple. "This is stupid."

"No," Scylla says patiently. "This is how you get intel."

"I mean it's stupid how they're making me work with you," Raelle snaps. "I know exactly what they're trying to do. Just shove us together enough times and eventually everything will go back to normal, right?" She scoffs, standing, and goes to the window, leaning on the sill. "Great plan."

"Yes, and besides, I'm sure you've found plenty of girls back at base to keep you company," Scylla says meanly, before she can stop herself. "You don't need me."

There's something in her that wants to tear at whatever's still holding them together, until it's ripped to shreds. It's unbearable, the way Raelle can make her feel so much. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Raelle shoots back accusingly, turning on her heel. Her eyes blaze. "Unfortunately, it's only ever been _you_ , Scylla."

Only Raelle can throw such sweet words out like daggers. Scylla hates the way her name still sounds so pretty, rolling off Raelle's tongue. Even in anger.

*

"I've missed you," Raelle says quietly, a little later on, when the tension between them has cooled. 

Across the room, their eyes meet.

Scylla feels any hurt and anger left in her melting like ice in summer heat.

She can't help it. 

She still loves Raelle. 

After all, it's only ever been _her_.

*

The last place Scylla ever expects to be at again is Fort Salem.

But that's exactly where she finds herself a week later, on one humid evening in mid-August.

She trails behind Raelle, who carries one of Scylla's bags draped over her shoulder. Scylla knows that her renewed residence here is only thanks to the Camarilla forcing a temporary truce between the military and the Spree, but she relishes the opportunity to be near Raelle again. Even if things have been less than pleasant between them, there's something warm and comforting to know they'll be existing within the same relative space once more.

It's a hopeful, dangerous feeling. She tries to shove it down, to crush it underfoot.

If only it were so easy.

Returning to her old room is strange.

All of her possessions are gone, of course; Scylla feels a small twinge of sadness at that. Not that anything she owned was particularly meaningful — she's still got the photo of her parents that Anacostia gave her. But she misses the familiarity of them. The Necro flag once pinned to the wall, the worn books that had lined her desk.

There's nothing here now but plain walls and a threadbare carpet. The furniture stands rigid and uninviting. 

Raelle drops Scylla's bag ceremoniously next to the bed, which is dressed in standard military linens. 

"Wait," Scylla says quietly, as Raelle turns to leave. "Stay a minute, please?"

*

Raelle perches on the desk, watching as Scylla unpacks her things. 

It's been nothing but silence between them, but at least it's not an entirely uncomfortable kind of silence. She can feel Raelle's eyes on her the whole time, watching. As if she's waiting to say something. Scylla tries her best to ignore it, moving about the room with what she hopes looks like casual ease. Anacostia's given her back her old military clothes; they look pitiful hanging all alone in the closet.

The photograph of her parents is the only bit of sentimentality in the whole room, tucked it into the mirror frame. Scylla stares at it wistfully. 

From behind her, she can hear Raelle scrambling to her feet. 

"Are those your parents?" she asks, coming up behind Scylla, hands shoved in her back pockets. It makes Scylla think of their first night together in her room. Raelle's charming, boyish swagger. 

It occurs to Scylla she never actually showed Raelle this photo before. She used to always keep it tucked away in her desk drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. 

Raelle looks at the photograph. Scylla looks at Raelle.

Scylla's heart feels like it's being squeezed, tighter and tighter the longer she looks.

They're so close together. Close enough to touch.

She can just reach out for Raelle. It will be fine, really. If Raelle pulls away — 

She can't. There is some sort of invisible force keeping her pinned in place. She wants to, but she just can't, and then —

And then Raelle does it for her. 

Their fingers thread together, palms pressed flush. She feels light-headed. Her heart beats double-time in her chest. Scylla thinks, there must be something wrong. This can't be right, because Raelle is holding her hand and not letting go and she is smiling at Scylla in that sweet way that Scylla remembers so well.

It's too much. Something in Scylla just _gives_.

She leans in at the same time Raelle does, and their mouths meet in the space between them.

It feels like flying, and all Scylla can think of is the night they did Salva together. The heady weightlessness of it all, the night alive with fireflies. Only now it's not rope that keeps her tethered to the ground but Raelle, holding her hand.

When they pull apart, Raelle's expression is soft but indecipherable. 

There's so many things Scylla wants to ask. What this means. If Raelle forgives her. If Raelle ever _could_ forgive her. If Raelle still loves her, even if only just a little. But she's afraid to speak; she doesn't want to ruin the moment. It feels as though they're the only people in the whole world. She wants time to stop; she wants this moment to stretch out endlessly in every direction.

But Scylla's done asking for things. The only thing left to do is to take.

She knits her fingers into the front of Raelle's t-shirt and yanks Raelle in for a rough, heady kiss. Raelle's hands are at Scylla's shoulders, pushing — not _away_ , but with purpose and direction — and when the backs of Scylla's knees hit the bed frame, she tumbles backwards, pulling Raelle down with her.

Raelle's hand is at Scylla's belt, undoing it in a single fluid motion. She pops open the button on Scylla's jeans, thrusts her hand inside to press against Scylla. Just like their first time. They move on the bed in a tangle of limbs, bodies pressed tightly together, the silence of the room punctuated by hot, hurried panting. 

Scylla comes so quickly, arching up and crying out; Raelle pulls her hand free and licks her fingers clean with a satisfied smile that makes Scylla shiver all over again. She's already desperate for more. It's never enough; Raelle will ruin her. Raelle _has_ ruined her.

She flips them over, pushing Raelle onto her back. 

There's a feeling in her so strong that she feels like she's going to burst. She kisses Raelle again, murmurs against her lips, "I love you. I love you."

Scylla thinks, it doesn't matter if Raelle says it back. Doesn't matter if she never says it again. 

And at the same time she's thinking, _please say it_. 

Raelle sighs, runs a hand through Scylla's hair, stroking it gently. Scylla can't breathe; it's as though Raelle's got Scylla's heart in her hands, squeezing so hard that it hurts. Scylla feels nearly like crying. She's waited for this moment again, she's dreamt of it, and it can't possibly be true, and Raelle looks beautiful — _is_ beautiful, always, always.

They strip each other of their clothes, piece by piece, in silence.

Scylla straddles Raelle, the sheets and blankets falling and bunching up around her waist. She strokes the undersides of Raelle's breasts. Raelle inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed. She reaches out and puts a hand on Scylla's hip, gripping it, as if to steady herself. Scylla dips her head down, kisses the hollow space at the base of her neck while her hands slide up to cover Raelle's breasts with her hands. Raelle's nipples harden beneath her touch.

Scylla pushes her thigh between Raelle's legs and Raelle arches against her encouragingly. Raelle's slick and hot with want, and Scylla finds herself suddenly wet again too, and filled with a desire that she's not sure Raelle's tongue or fingers will ever quell.

When Scylla's fingers drift down to slide against Raelle's clit, Raelle moans and grips the sheets, eyes squeezed shut. Scylla grins, moving her fingers against Raelle again, once, twice. 

"Please," Raelle murmurs, gazing up at Scylla with heavy-lidded eyes. "Scyl. _Please_."

Scylla kisses her, hard. Her fingers push inside.

She drags it out for as long as she can, making love to Raelle, because she likes to watch her, the muscles in her arms, stomach, tensing and relaxing, the way she bites down on her bottom lip, the way her hair looks splayed out on the pillow. She drags her tongue over a nipple, before taking it into her mouth; she can feel Raelle push up against her, and she likes how Raelle reaches forward and tangles her fingers in her hair, desperate.

And then she kisses Raelle, tongue sliding along her bottom lip, strokes harder, quicker, lets her come, because she can only stand to torture Raelle for so long (even if it is the good kind of torture, slow and agonizing and brilliant all at once). And besides, she likes this Raelle best anyway, panting, sweaty, trying to catch her breath in between frantic kisses. She likes having Raelle want and need her like this, coming down and completely spent, but still needing to touch.

And then Scylla rolls off, because she actually does want to give Raelle a chance to catch her breath properly, and for a while they just lie there; Raelle reaches over and takes Scylla's hand in her own, threading their fingers together, her thumb stroking the back of Scylla's hand.

Scylla sighs, closes her eyes. Her heart gallops away in her chest.

She _really_ doesn't want to ask, but if she doesn't, she thinks she might go crazy. "Raelle," she starts, dread pooling in her stomach. "What does this mean?"

Raelle is quiet beside her for a moment. Then, "I'm not sure."

"Right."

"But," Raelle is saying, looking at Scylla now with wide, clear eyes. "I think it's . . . good?"

Scylla can't help it; it's so absurd, and Raelle looks so earnest: she laughs. 

And then Raelle is laughing with her, Raelle is kissing her cheek, trailing kisses down Scylla's neck, dragging her tongue down between Scylla's breasts, taking a nipple into her mouth and sucking slowly. Scylla groans and tugs at Raelle until Raelle's on top of her, hands and mouth everywhere at once. 

After a minute, Raelle gives Scylla a wicked grin, and with a chaste kiss, slides down between Scylla's legs. She plants a kiss to the junction of Scylla's thigh and hip. Her tongue slides over, then up. Scylla cries out quietly, arches up, clutches at the sheets. She'll never tire of this, feeling like her skin is on fire, Raelle's nails digging into her thighs. She has to remind herself to breathe.

"Oh, don't stop, please, oh, Raelle," she pants, already racing towards the edge of the precipice, and Raelle pushes two fingers into her, working until Scylla comes with a shudder. There's fireworks going off behind her eyelids, as her hips jut into Raelle's hand.

Scylla pulls Raelle to her for a fierce kiss; she can taste herself on Raelle's tongue. Raelle's smiling into the kiss and it only serves to make Scylla want to kiss Raelle _more_ , until they're breathless. 

Later, when they lie in bed, side by side, Raelle on her stomach, watching as Scylla traces shapes and patterns on her back, fingers moving idly, it almost feels like time has stopped for them completely. She kisses Raelle's shoulder, nuzzles against her. It doesn't make Scylla's heart beat any slower, still running senselessly fast and hard she thinks her ribs could crack right open..

Raelle catches Scylla's hand. She kisses Scylla's wrist, palm, knuckles, fingers. Just like she always used to.

"Can we start again?" Raelle asks, so sweetly that Scylla could cry. She presses their foreheads together. Her hand cups Scylla's cheek, thumb stroking lightly. "I need you, Scyl. I love you too much." 

She kisses Scylla, very, very gently. As if she's afraid Scylla might break. 

Scylla thinks she could burst into flames.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to [suchbeautifuldoubt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchbeautifuldoubt) and [FracturedClock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedclock) for looking this over. 


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